


Brass Taps and Oak

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chinese Translation, Deductions, Experiment, M/M, Pre-Canon, Quick Case Fic, Slight Dub Con - They're Both Drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1900128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade goes out for a drink after a rough case, and finds Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not At My Best

**Author's Note:**

> Title & chapter titles from 'Home for Rest' by Spirit of the West.
> 
> Not britpicked nor betaed. Sorry - feel free to let me know of any mistakes.
> 
> Chinese translation: http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-131385-1-1.html

Greg pulled himself up to the scuffed bar and waited for the bartender to saunter over. He ordered a scotch, neat, passed over his card to start a tab, and wearily massaged his temples. The damp smell of old beer, brass taps and oak comforted him mildly. It’d been a rough few days, one of those easy open and shut cases, but so very psychologically devastating. The way the adolescent had been sawed to pieces, while still alive and at the hands of his trusted step-mother; Greg needed to forget.

The bar was empty save a few desperate patrons needing relief on a Tuesday night. Greg took a moment to look around, he’d barely noticed anyone when he’d walked in. There were two young women in a booth to his left, one clearly straight from a break up with her puffy bloodshot eyes, surrounded by shot glasses while her companion patted her hand softly. An old drunk, skin slipping with the weight of extended vice and a defeated expression permanently etched on his face sat at the end of the bar, nursing a whiskey. And in the corner, a gorgeously lithe pale man with a flurry of crazed, dark curls-

 _Sherlock? Was that_ bloody _Sherlock? Sherlock, with 3, 6, 9,_ Greg counted, **_12?_** _shots of clear liquor in front him?_

The bartender sat the scotch down in front of Greg with a dull thud of glass against wood. Greg nodded his thanks, grabbed the spirit and slid off the bar stool. He walked over to Sherlock’s booth and dropped down into the bench across from him.

Sherlock’s head shot up and a brief look of surprise crossed his face before settling into what Greg recognized as his Deduction Face. Greg withstood the onslaught of his hauntingly intense stare and waited for the string of inappropriately timed comments.

“Ah, Lestrade.” Sherlock started, “You’re coming from an easy case, but you are uneasy with the actions of the killer. It wasn’t the gore or the violence of the attack though, it was the relationship of the victim to the attacker. You’ve come to drink in a bar so that you aren’t technically alone in your empty flat, which has been vacated by your wife since your separation. You plan on getting spectacularly drunk, thus you aren’t scheduled to work in the morning.” Sherlock paused to allow Greg’s response.

“Yeah, yeah, you know you’ve got it right.” Greg was impressed he hadn’t yet been insulted.

“Excellent,” Sherlock spoke, clearly pleased, though Greg wasn’t sure why. Sherlock waved down the waitress and put on his false charm, “Could you please get my friend two more scotches? He’s got a tab running.” The waitress smiled perfunctorily, and meandered towards the bar.

“Jesus, Sherlock, I haven’t started this one yet,” Greg protested, and then thought better of it. Sherlock was right. He was here to get pissed. Why pretend? He gulped down half his scotch in one go. “So, what’s the deal with the-“ Greg grabbed one of Sherlock’s many shots and sniffed, “vodka?”

“Experiment.” Sherlock replied, as if it explained everything.

“Go on, then, for us idiots.”

“A long term experiment on the effects of alcohol over time. Each year, I consume 540 milliliters of 80 proof vodka, taken 45 milliliters at a time, 15 minutes apart. I document the effects on my response time, consciousness, and thought processes as I age.” He held up a red notebook to demonstrate his documentation, checked his watch and picked up a glass. He lifted the shot glass to his lips and with a quick flip of his wrist, poured the alcohol down the back of his pale, narrow throat. Greg stared. He’d never seen Sherlock drink even a pint, and now he was watching the man’s imbibe hard liquor with a deep and sensual swallow. Sherlock set the tiny glass upside down and licked a drop of vodka from his pink lips.

Greg bit back his own swallow and put his hand out for the notebook, which Sherlock acquiesced. He opened to the first page and saw the date. “You’ve been doing this for years. Hold on-“ Greg did some mental arithmetic, “You started this when you were 13?! How the hell’d you get-” he calculated again, “-12 shots? Twelve shots of vodka when you were 13?!”

The waitress returned with his scotch. Greg drank the rest of his first drink, passed the empty glass back to the woman, and thanked her with a nod of his head.

Sherlock glared at him, dripping with disdain. “Honestly, Lestrade. I was lifting evidence from New Scotland Yard by the time I was twenty. Do you think a bottle of vodka would be a difficultly for me?”

“Oi!” Lestrade griped, concerned about the implications of that statement, “You better not be hiding any evidence from me! I’ll do another drugs bust if I have to – Anderson may be forensics, but he’d take the time.”

“Who?”

“Anderson? The new forensic tech? Just last week you called him- let me get this right- _a debauched feeble-minded abomination to all the senses_.”

Sherlock smirked. “Ah, him. How dull. I can’t tell if the education of forensic technicians is woefully inadequate or if your judgment is severely lacking.” He feigned thoughtfulness, “Silly me, it could easily be both.”

Greg scowled back, but without heat. He was rather used to Sherlock’s harmless barbs. “Alright, you bastard, another drink then?” He lifted his glass.

Sherlock looked at his watch. “I have another seven minutes until I can consume my next drink. Feel free to drink on your own schedule.”

With a shrug, Greg took a long drink of the scotch. The first drink had acclimated his taste buds, and the second drink went down more smoothly as a result. His chest was feeling warm and a smile smeared across his face as the alcohol set in quickly. He looked at Sherlock, who was busy scribbling away his observations in the red notebook. His curls bobbled slightly as his hand raced over the page and Greg felt an urge to run his fingers through the soft, dark locks. He blinked deliberately and shook his head. God, what had happened to his life that he imagining the feel of Sherlock Holmes?

Greg took another long gulp of his drink.


	2. Tease Us and Flirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that it's not betaed or britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) let me know if/what I've messed up.

Sunlight gushed through the window and Greg felt assaulted under its attack. He threw an arm lazily over his closed eyes to diminish the sun’s burn. He groped blindly for his mobile, meaning to check the time, but found the nightstand to be missing entirely. He paused, confused, and took stock of his senses. The bed was harder than his own, and his own sheets weren’t near this silky. He wiggled slightly to enjoy the sensation and realized he was naked. He had slept on the right side of the bed, though he typically favored the left, and with a quick shift of his foot, determined, unfortunately, that he was not alone.

 _He was not alone_. What did he do last night?

His tongue was fuzzy and he felt the distinct cloud of liquor simmering in his mouth. He inhaled deeply and the pillow’s scent registered dimly in his brain. That scent… _oh, fuck_. He flipped his head toward his bedmate, hoping, _praying_ he had not just made a huge mistake. Hesitantly, he finally opened his eyes.

Sherlock.

 _Fuck_.

 

Greg pushed himself up in the bed, sat back, and rubbed his eyes until his sight was no longer blurred. He registered a dull pain in his backside, something he remembered faintly from the days long before he’d married. _So, that happened,_ he realized _._ He glanced over the bedroom and determined it was decidedly Sherlockian: haphazard, but sparse. He recognized the suit jacket discarded carelessly on the floor a few feet from his side of the bed, and strained to reach it without actually standing. He slid it over, and checked the pockets. Thank god, his phone was still there. He checked the time; half nine.

He rubbed his right temple as he recognized the hangover throbbing in his skull. In his left hand, the phone vibrated, causing him to jump. He stood quickly, cursing his shooting headache, and snuck quietly out of the room before he answered.

It was Donovan. He couldn’t justifiably be upset, but he did absolutely hate London’s victims for their timing. Couldn’t he work through hangover and what was assuredly a one night stand in peace? He hung up with Donovan and stumbled towards the kitchen. He found what he hoped was a clean glass amongst the chemistry set and filled it with water. He gulped one glass in mere seconds, filled the cup again and gently opened the door back into Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock was sleeping, a sight Greg never thought he’d see. He was sprawled out face down across the large bed, the cream silk sheet draped artistically across his arse. His curls haloed his head and his left leg dangled halfway off the bed. Greg loudly cleared his throat while he placed the water on the nightstand near Sherlock’s head and the man didn’t even move. Instead of waking him directly, Greg began to dress.

As he slipped into his suit, he found a few incriminating items mixed in between the button downs, the pants and the trousers. He capped the lubricant and put it on the nightstand next to Sherlock and tossed the condom wrappers in the bin.

He took one last look at Sherlock after slipping his socks on. Greg’d never seen him look softer or more restful. He smiled weakly as he committed to memory the sight of this younger man, gorgeous, post-coitus, and asleep. He knew he’d revisit this moment again and hoped in due time he’d remember enough moments of the evening before. He’d always been fond of Sherlock, brilliant but distant, haughty and unattainable. Greg scoffed silently at the irony of finally attaining him but not remembering a moment of it.

Knowing he wouldn’t have the chance again and feeling slightly guilty for running off, even if it was for a case, Greg padded softly to the head of the bed, and placed a warm, chaste kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

-o-

It took him ten minutes to hail a cab in the dank district Sherlock currently lived. Greg would be concerned, but it was a far cry better than the last neighborhood Sherlock had resided. Greg slipped into the backseat, gave directions to the crime scene Donovan had called him on, and slipped his hand back into his suit pocket to check his phone. His hand brushed up again cardstock and he pulled the paper out.

An advert for a uni documentary on Venus Fly Traps? It wasn’t there last night-

_Sherlock was 5, 6, 7(?) shots into his experiment. A small group of studious looking uni kids came in the door. Three walked to the bar and ordered, while one started dropping flyers off to the few patrons in the bar. Stupid kids, this was a crap night to advertise. The boy, with shaggy brown hair and too much chin, dropped a flyer off with a quick “Cheers” and moved on. Sherlock snapped the flyer up and examined it._

_“Did you know, Lestrade-“_

_“Greg. Call me Greg.”_

_“Did you know, Gregory, that the Venus Fly Trap is native only to a 60 mile radius within the United States?”_

_“Uh-“ Like many of Sherlock’s pronouncements, Greg had no idea how to respond._

_Sherlock flashed the flyer at him._ Ah, that’s where the Venus Fly Trap comment had come from _. “If you want to know more, you only need ask. No sense in wasting your time on a documentary filmed by students not clever enough to find a more appropriate audience.”_

_Greg had had no intention of wasting time at a documentary, nor did he care much for carnivorous plants, but tried to engage in the conversation anyways. He’d finished the third scotch and was working on a whiskey sour the waitress had suggested._

_“Sixty miles, huh?”_

_Greg was appalled at the inanity of his contribution to the conversation._

_Sherlock seemed pleased. “Ah yes, a 60 miles radius around a coastal city. Wilmington. In North Carolina, not Delaware,” Sherlock clarified, as though Greg were versed enough in American geography to make the mistake. “It’s rather well known for its pirate lore. I rather aspired to piracy as a child.” His eyes seemed to twinkle, although that could easily have been the effect of the alcohol._

_“God, I could only imagine the havoc you’d reek as a pirate.” Greg laughed._

Greg smiled. It was rare to have a conversation with Sherlock that didn’t revolve around crime. He supposed they’d must have had a few last night, to end up in bed together, but nonetheless, Greg was glad to have recalled the memory. Even if he never remember the sex, the humanness of that moment would be a warm reminder of why he continued to manage the man’s more manic behaviors.

He looked out the window of the cab and saw the crime scene draw near. He hopped out when the cab stopped and paid the cabbie. He stood on the kerb and observed what he could before walking over to Donovan. He was on Cranbrook Road, in front of a cream two story terraced house with black trim around its windows. The small front garden was flush with flowers, the most prominent of which were a purply pink bell shaped flower that near fell over the red and white brick wall that separated the garden from the sidewalk. Violet flowers jutted out from between the crack between the wall and the walkway, like wayward escapees.

Lobelia _, Sherlock had told him._

 _They had left the pub and were walking, with the occasional stumble, elbows hooked together, in a nearby park. Though it was dark, Sherlock had pointed out all the flowers to him as they strolled along, arm in arm._ Like lovers _, Greg had thought, with a blush. Greg, embarrassed by his thoughts, had tried to extract his arm from Sherlock’s, and in doing so, Sherlock instead grabbed his hand and intertwined their fingers. Greg’s stomach flipped and his breath caught. Sherlock paused at the gasp of air and then suddenly used Greg’s momentum and the fulcrum of their connected limbs to swing Greg around into his chest and wrapped his other arm around him._

 _Greg stuttered and froze in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock held firm as, in drunkenness, Greg lurched sideways. The warmth encompassed him and he melted briefly into Sherlock’s hold. His brain kicked into gear several moments later. There must be an explanation. Sherlock wasn’t ever affectionate. This must be part of the experiment. Maybe he always tried to pull someone during the alcohol experiment._ Does it matter _?, the treacherous part of his brain asked. No, he thought, he’d take anything this man would offer. He dared to look Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock stared back at him, eyes glassy with booze, but intensity focused solely on Greg._

_“I’ve never thanked you,” Sherlock spoke, as though the thought had just dawned on him._

_“For what,” Greg’s voice came out as a whisper._

_“For staving off the boredom,” Sherlock explained incredulously, as though he couldn’t possibly believe that Greg wouldn’t know why Sherlock was indebted to him._

_“You’re brilliant,” Greg confessed. “We need you.” He paused, and it seemed a good idea at the time to admit, “I need you.”_

_Sherlock smirked softly, pulled Greg flush against his body, and brought his lips to Greg’s._

Greg shook his head and imagined the monotony of digging a ditch until the beginnings of his erection fully subsided. No place for that at a crime scene. He looked up to where there were shadows in the first floor windows and Greg assumed that’s where the body was found. He entered the house and hiked up the stairs to Donovan.

“White male, 32, lives here with his brother. The brother, Marcus Blackmore, called us upon finding the brother dead this morning. Says the victim, Phillip Blackmore, was having some chest pains last night, took some paracetamol and went to bed.”

“So we were called-“

“-because 32 is awfully young to have a heart attack?”

Greg nodded. “Anything suspect?”

“No obvious puncture wounds on the body, nor dodgy prescriptions that we can find. But he had no family history of heart disease and he seems fit.” Donovan gestured to the body, which, even though pyjamas, was clearly toned and well maintained.

“So… no obvious evidence, but completely suspect?” Greg confirmed, knowing where this was headed.

“Yeah.” Donovan sighed bitterly. “We’d better call _him_ in,” she sneered, refusing to even speak Sherlock’s name.

Greg headed back down to the kitchen to make sure the team wasn’t mishandling any cups or mugs that the victim might’ve used in the last 24 hours. No one was standing in the kitchen so Greg took a quick measure of what he saw, before calling in the new guy, Anderson, to place the two coffee mugs and a handful of flatware still in the sink into evidence bags on the off chance the victim was poisoned. He looked around for any other clearly used dishes, but instead caught a glimpse of wine glasses in a curio to the left off the table.

_He was sitting rather like he’d been poured, in old armchair with a ugly paisley pattern that likely had been in the flat when Sherlock moved in. He claimed it was for a flatmate that he’d eventually get, but the lack of a second bedroom suggested the search wasn’t genuine._

_Sherlock came from the kitchen behind him and draped himself over Greg’s back. He placed a wineglass in Greg’s hand and offered the drink by whispering huskily, with a wet, hot, deep sultry voice, in Greg’s ear. Greg shuddered at the warm heat, and Sherlock had run his fingers along the length of Greg’s arm up to his shoulder as he pulled back to reach his own drink._

God, did they really keep drinking back at Sherlock’s flat? No wonder his memory was a bloody minefield.


	3. Take Me Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors!

Sherlock arrived in a huff and could be heard berating officers before he even entered the house. Greg was on edge. He wasn’t ashamed, nor embarrassed, but he was anxious. Would Sherlock acknowledge their night together? Would he remember more that Greg could? Was something said or done that he’d expect Greg to remember? He half expected Sherlock’s derision and disgust, though he figured Sherlock’s lashing out in that scenario would be as equally aimed at Sherlock himself for submitting to his transport. Should he acknowledge Sherlock first? Would Sherlock be hurt, harmed, pained by Greg acting normal? Could he even act normal? Honestly, Greg had no idea how he wanted this go. But better to get it over with than let it drag on any further. He went to meet Sherlock at the door.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock acknowledged briefly as he went straight to the stairs. Back to ‘Lestrade’ then. Professional. Non-committal. Greg followed him up the stairs. Maybe they’d never talk about it again.

Sherlock strode past Donovan and into the room with the victim. He glared at Anderson, who was leaning over the body and sneered, “I see they let just anyone onto crime scenes these days.”

Anderson sputtered and searched the room until his eyes latched helplessly onto Greg’s. Greg rolled his eyes and sighed, “Play nice, Sherlock. It’s you who needs my permission to be here.”

“If you’d hire competent help – look at his trousers!” Sherlock gestured exasperatedly to Anderson, “He’s obviously been in the garden and riddled the crime scene with the muddy hems. The blue booties don’t help if your slacks are filthy.” He glared around further for another victim to shame, and Greg caught on quickly.

“You will not deduce my team. The victim, yes.” He emphasized his last sentence by jabbing his forefinger towards the victim laying supine on his bed. He stepped forward, closer to Sherlock, to hear the muttered ramblings that always preceded the shout of having solved the puzzle. Sherlock leaned carefully over the body, and poke his gloved fingers here and there on and near the corpse. He gently lifted the waistband of the victim’s pyjama bottoms with two fingers and Greg had a sudden flash.

_Greg lay flat on his back in nothing but his pants. Sherlock hovering over him, the porcelain skin of his chest made whiter still by the moonlight streaming in the window. Sherlock hooked two fingers from each hand under the waistband of Greg’s pants, and pulled._

Greg stopped the memory before it could unfold further. Not here and not now. But he knew he’d replay that again later. Sherlock had stood and was now examining the room. He read the titles on the bookshelf. He flicked the lights on and off, messed with the dimmer switch. He took note of the book that had fallen off the nightstand and demanded to know if anyone had moved it. The wallet on the nightstand was rifled though, cards and receipts flicked out but not replaced.

“Well?” Greg asked, waiting for a verdict.

“Any puncture wounds?”

“No.”

“Medications?”

“No.”

“Family History?”

“No.” Greg loved it when they could easily answer his first questions. Nothing was worse than his first question not having occurred to anyone on the scene.

“Excellent. Murder.” Sherlock smiled wickedly.

Greg caught the irritation in Donovan’s eyes and shut her down wordlessly. Sherlock flounced out of the room to prowl the rest of the house.

Once he’d moved into the brother’s room, Donovan turned on Greg. “Had a good night, did we?” Greg stammered. _How did she know that he and Sherlock-_ “She’s a biter, that one,” she continued, getting it slightly wrong, and traced the outline of what could only be a love bite on the backside of his neck. Damn.

_Sherlock was on his knees in the middle of the bed. Greg knelt in front of him, knees spread wide, his back flush to Sherlock’s chest, practically seated in his lap. Sherlock’s arms were wrapped around Greg’s torso in a unyielding hug, while he rhythmically rocked his prick deep into Greg’s arse. Greg was soft and spent at that point, he must have already come. Greg’s head bobbed back onto Sherlock’s shoulder while Sherlock pressed heated kisses against his neck and shoulders. The sensation of Sherlock sliding out and in, occasionally nudging his prostate as Sherlock took his time – in his drunkenness, the moments seemed to last hours._

_Eventually, Sherlock’s thrusts grew more vigorous and irregular while he clung tightly to Greg for leverage. Greg’s head fell forward from the force and he knew Sherlock was close. After a particularly violent thrust, Sherlock bit down on the back of his neck, and snarled his way through his orgasm, pumping slower but deeper. As the euphoria faded, Sherlock suckled tenderly at the bite mark, kissing softly in apology._

Greg smirked fondly, glad for the recall, which Anderson mistook as permission to pipe up, “Same clothes as yesterday, too.”

Greg smacked on his “amused, but annoyed” look. “My personal life isn’t crime scene fodder. Get on with it,” he gestured vaguely.

“Get on with what?” Donovan asked, “We’re just waiting for the psychopath to give us his assessment. Tell us about this lady friend.”

“There’s no lady. Leave it. And if he’s to play nice, so do you. There’ll be no name calling in my crime scene.”

“Thank you, Lestrade, for your concern, but the faulty opinions of lesser-minded primates don’t concern me.” Sherlock’s insult announced his presence.

“That’s was quick. Mind telling us why it’s murder?” Greg ignored the jabs and hoped Donovan would, too.

“Murder. Killer was the brother; they’ve likely discovered a Goldilocks planet. Digitalis poisoning. Didn’t you see the foxglove outside?” Sherlock sounded as bored as he looked.

“And how do we know this?” God, it was like prompting a child.

“Simple. The dimmed lights suggest photophobia, the misplaced book; dizziness. He’s lost considerable weight in the past few months; his pyjamas are at least two sizes too big. Individually, nothing, together, with the foxglove outside, the book on herbal teas in the brother’s room and the brother’s obvious motive, leads to digitalis poisoning. I’ll bet his colleagues confirm confusion and fatigue.”

“Motive?”

“Our victim is an astronomer at the Royal Observatory. Along with his brother.” At the confused faces around him, he gestured to the man’s wallet. “Business cards, two of them. For the victim and his brother. Hardly difficult.”

“How’s that motive?”

“The Royal Observatory is holding a press conference in two days. These brothers are the guests. Ergo, they’ve discovered something significant. A star would be negligible, planets are becoming more common, but something to guarantee his career? Something to kill for? Most likely a Goldilocks planet, something not too hot, not too cold, potentially able to sustain life. Although I suppose it could be something completely new altogether, but balance of probability. Didn’t want to share the success with his brother.”

Sherlock smiled his toothy shark-like smile, “Please tell me someone put all the dishes into evidence.”

“Done.”

“Look for a mortar and pestle. Test the victim for digitalis poisoning. And check the CCTV to prove the brother was the one gathering the leaves. Really, Lestrade, this hardly qualifies as interesting.”

“Thanks for-“ Lestrade began, but Anderson cut him off.

“I’ve got an interesting case for you. Deduce the woman Lestrade pulled last night. He won’t tell us.”

“Irrelevant. And unsurprising that even in one sentence you could get so much wrong.”

“Prove it.” Donovan goaded.

Sherlock glanced at Greg, clearly fighting the battle of wanting to show off, and not wanting to be unwelcome at further crimes scenes. Greg sighed. If Sherlock was asking his permission to deduce last night, he clearly didn’t remember. He acquiesced, knowing this may be the only way to determine best how to deal with the previous night.

“Go on, then. Deduce away.” He lifted his arms up permissively, and allowed Sherlock to circle him once.

“Given that he’s invited me to assess his sexual partner suggests that he is not embarrassed or concerned that you might know his partner. Thus, his hesitance in telling you in is in concern for the partner and whether the partner wishes that you know. Therefore, the partner is someone know to Lestrade and to at least one of you. The position of the bite indicates the partner was behind Lestrade and of similar height. Given that, and the limp in Lestrade’s gait, we can deduce that the partner was male. Am I right?”

“You know you are.” Greg’s confidence was accompanied by a knowing smirk. Sherlock added that to his observations, unsure as to why Greg seemed so willing to undergo this scrutiny. Regardless, he barreled on.

“You came straight from the man’s house to the crime scene, as evidenced by the state of your suit and the stale alcohol on your breathe. You met someone either at the pub last night or after you left. Given the state of your marriage and the reasons you came out drinking last night, you didn’t pull them, they pulled you. That much is obvious.”

“Pub? How’d you know it was a pub?” Donovan jumped, hoping to catch him in an assumption.

“I observed. I was there.”

“You? You were at a pub?”

“Yes. An experiment.”

“Of course.” Donovan rolled her eyes.

Sherlock paused. “But that brings us back to the original question that will identify the partner.”

“What question?” Anderson inquired, baffled.

Sherlock locked eyes with Greg and sneered, “You are concerned your partner does not want others to know about your liaison. Why, then, knowing I do what I do, did you allow me to deduce who they are, Greg?”

 _Greg_. **_Greg._** Sherlock’s eyes widened and Greg watched them twitch as the evidence from this morning and the broken memories of last night started to filter into his mind all at once. After several empty seconds, Sherlock broke the silence.

“I see,” he tried to speak naturally, but instead spoke with the breathy whisper of a dry mouth. “Alcohol gets more potent with age.”

Greg spoke up, with a smile. “Indeed. An observation for the book.” He briefly looked hesitant, but confidence flushed his face once again, “You forgot one.”

Sherlock’s regained his composure quickly under the accusation of failure, “Forgot what?”

“A deduction. Tell me, does this partner of mine want this to be a one off ? Or will I be seeing him again?”

Sherlock smiled a rare, genuine smile.

“Again. Definitely again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case is based off a season one episode of Pysch.


End file.
